


feel a little rush (I think I’ve got a crush)

by piratesails



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Fluff, Pining, and is filled with a lot of longing, killian jones is a nerd about shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-14 08:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratesails/pseuds/piratesails
Summary: He can appreciate the advancement that the internet has brought, a completely new language that it’s created with acronyms and shorter words per sentences that deliver precisely the same meanings. WhereinI’m going to die ilysmandomg wtf this manandCRYINGare all appropriately positive expressions, and apparently only the beginning of the comments under his photo.AU where high school lit teacher Killian Jones ends up on the hotdudesreading Instagram and is very confused by it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guys, I haven't posted anything in so long I forgot how the tag system worked rip me.  
> anyway this started from a dumb tumblr post I made and it turned into a two part fic woo! Lana (high-seas-swan on tumblr) saved this from being a mess and is just generally the best. 
> 
> part two should be up in a few days, please leave me your thoughts and feelings ily.
> 
> title from 'crush' by yuna.

The giggling isn't new, but he will say he hasn't heard it in a while. On this Monday morning, however, the soft echoes of laughter follow him from the parking lot and through the corridors.

He's being paranoid, he thinks. Until he turns around just before he reaches his classroom and watches a group of girls disperse, eyes shifting down quickly to their phones, their mouths quivering with restraint.

Killian knows restraint, and he definitely knows when something feels off.

Still, he's a professional. So he straightens his back and puts as much bounce in his step as one might need to convince seventeen year olds that Shakespeare is fun. It works, most days. 

But today--

His first class is uncharacteristically quiet, most of them fidgeting, thinking twice before raising hands to ask questions. His second is filled with students who can barely get through reading the first scene of the second act of Othello without laughing. (Which, with all the deceit and plotting, Killian should think to be problematic.)

And, well. Killian can tell today isn't going to be like most days.

-/-

It's after his free period, fifteen minutes before his next class is due to start, that Violet fills him in.

She walks into class early, her phone in her hand and all but shoves it into his face with an expression that's equal parts embarrassment and anticipation.

“What is this?” he asks, even though he knows what it is. It's a photo of him, sitting on his own in what he knows for certain is the teacher’s lounge, his nose buried in his well-worn leather-bound copy of Hamlet that Liam gifted him years ago.

“It's you,” Violet replies, unhelpfully.

“Yes, but why am I on,” he squints to make out the letters and adds unsurely, “ _hotdudesreading_?” He doesn't know what this is, but it makes him want to scratch the back of his neck, his bloody nervous tic.

“Someone submitted your photo onto this public Instagram page. It's pictures of guys who look good while they're reading something. See?” She pulls back to the main page and scrolls down to show him the different photos; some on the subway, some in cafes, some in parks. His is the latest, the first one on the page. A page that he notes has close to a million followers.

He reaches out and taps disbelievingly on his photo once more.

“Fifty-three thousand likes?” he croaks out.

“And counting.”

_Bloody hell._

“Who took this?” It makes him uncomfortable. He knows he's attractive, but it's one thing to be told that by a woman at a bar and it's another to have strangers commenting with tongue out emojis and a litany of indecencies he definitely doesn't want his students associating with him.

Violet, perhaps noting his discomfort, shrugs with a sheepish smile. He's always liked her, is glad his seniors have a friendlier relationship with him. Friendly enough to disclose why the majority of the student body has been stealing secret looks at him all day. “It's anonymous submissions.”

He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair.

“Thank you for showing me.”

She nods and goes to her seat just as the other students enter the class.

Perhaps it won't last too long. Isn't the internet producing new things to talk about by the second, anyway? He puts it out of his mind and takes a second to grasp at the memory of his lesson plan.

“So, Mr. Jones,” Felix calls out from the back, “read anything interesting lately?”

The others do a valiant job at hiding their laughter behind their hands but he still hears it loud as a cannon blast, a ringing sensation in his ears following after.

He forces a smile and prays to some deity listening that this dies out by the end of the day.

-/-

His lunch break feels as though it arrives after eons. He takes reprieve in not being surrounded by giggling girls and boys, and thinks that even though Felix was the only one to make a comment, it still felt like one comment too many.

Killian doesn't know what to do with all this and he refuses to open his own app and obsessively check the comments section of the photo. He considers composing a request to the account to take it down, but everyone's already seen it. If he knows how this generation works, there must already be thousands of screenshots floating around in group chats. It's useless. It will do him no good.

Doing what he knows, instead, he grabs his packed sandwich, dispenses two cappuccinos from the lounge’s coffee machine and makes his way down the hall. He knocks on the ajar door before entering, his stomach doing a little flip at the sight of his colleague as she looks up at him through her lashes, her thick frames sliding down her nose.

It’s a familiar sensation, one that he often feels in the presence of Emma Swan. One he feels even more so when he's not expecting to see her. Ever since he'd been introduced to her on his first day teaching at Storybrooke High a year and a half ago, and she'd shaken his hand warily, keeping their conversation curt, he’s been captivated. It was her beauty that had struck him then, but as she'd slightly loosened her grip on her formalities, her wit and intelligence and the sound of her laughter bewitched him further. Not to mention her walls, the bits of her past that he's pieced together mirroring some of his own experiences. He sees some part of himself in her.

He's a little pathetic. He knows.

They're not really friends. A little more than acquaintances, perhaps. Her being the school counsellor, Killian doesn’t see her as much as he sees his other colleagues (to his misfortune). He's spoken to her on multiple occasions regarding matters that don't concern learning patterns and lesson plans. He initiates lunch invites, which she more often than not turns down. But she doesn't get up and take another seat when he sits next to her during staff meetings and there are days where they banter like they've known each other for years; he holds on to the little victories. There's a distance between them that he wants so desperately to bridge. He never quite knows where he stands in her eyes.

He's a literature major with an indispensable vocabulary, but he still hasn't been able to find the right word to describe just what his relationship with Emma Swan is.

“I was looking for Belle?” It comes out like a question.

“She just went out to print something.”

“I see. I'll just--” He nods his head out to the corridor, a little disarmed by the way she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and then decides better and takes them off.

“Killian!” Belle chooses that moment to nearly ram into his back. He shakes his head, putting down the coffees on the table and rushing back to take the stack of papers from her hands. “Thank you,” she says with a smile.

“Always here to serve, love.”

Belle swats his arm as she passes him on her way to her desk. His eyes dart to Emma once more.

“I brought coffee but you're busy so I'll just--”

“I think I'll leave you both to--”

Emma and Killian begin at the same time, cutting off to look at each other. Emma’s half out of her seat and Killian scratches behind his ear, feeling a little like a schoolboy.

“Both of you, sit,” Belle commands, armed with her Teacher Voice that he knows she uses to get students in line.

“Are you--”

“Sit.”

He does.

The desk is a little crowded with three people using it but they manage, if a little awkwardly. Killian slides Belle’s coffee over to her and his own over to Emma, which she accepts after a second of hesitation.

He often pops in to have lunch with Belle, to discuss and debate over the books they're currently reading, the assignments they're thinking of handing out, and how they’re doing in general. Belle’s the only one on campus whom he's discussed his infatuation with Emma Swan with. Which is why he shoots her a narrow-eyed look as he unwraps his sandwich. She simply smiles at him in mock innocence.

It's always the quiet ones, Killian thinks.

“Behind on paperwork?” he asks Emma after a while, noting her alternating between her salad and a small stack of papers.

“A little.”

“Emma had a busy weekend,” Belle adds, her tone instructing Emma to participate more. Emma’s following sigh would be funny if it weren't seeping in annoyance.

“Ruby had a bachelorette party that kind of went on for a day longer than it was supposed to.”

Killian knows Ruby in passing; she’s the head waitress at Granny’s, the most popular establishment in town. He doesn’t even remember how he heard of Ruby’s engagement or upcoming wedding but it was probably the small town rumour mill finding its way to him. Killian can’t escape it even if he tries. “Please tell me there are videos somewhere of you doing drunk karaoke.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Everyone knows I'm not above homicide.”

“You give yourself too little credit, Swan.” It’s a small step, his graduating from calling her Ms. Swan, to the dropping of the prefix. He understood the significance the day he'd referred to her by her last name and had not received a complaint from her. (Has he mentioned that he's pathetic?)

“What about you? Fun weekend?” Belle asks, sipping her coffee.

“Uneventful,” he replies. “My Monday, however, has been an ongoing...adventure.”

Emma glances at him and Belle quirks up an eyebrow in question. He brought this upon himself, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the photo on the page. He slides it across the desk and is grateful neither of them are looking directly at him.

When she registers what it is she's looking at, Emma coughs. Hard and long enough that he rips open the third drawer where he knows Belle keeps an extra water bottle and hands it to her. He rubs his palm up and down her back, until she's recovered and become rigid under his touch.

Slowly, he pulls his hand away, a feeling of pins crawling up to his elbow as he does.

He wants to make a joke about it not being the first time he's left a woman speechless, but suddenly he's embarrassed by the photo. He doesn't understand it, but he wishes she hadn't seen it. Perhaps he doesn't like the idea that she would not care at all.

Emma looks at it again, exhales.

“Wow,” Belle comments.

He can only assume she's talking about the steady rise of the likes. “Yeah.”

“I guess it makes sense why Aurora and August were whispering about you. Well, they thought they were whispering.” Belle huffs.

“The teachers too?” He groans, swiftly lands his forehead on her desk.

After a while, Emma says, “Aren't you used to the attention?”

Killian turns to her, resting on his cheek. “Perhaps in a personal setting, not a professional one.”

“Please, what about your first week here?” she scoffs. “Kids were following you around like ducks.”

“That was simply because I was new. Now it's because I'm on the internet for being  _hot_.”

She still looks confused, but she also looks sympathetic. He'll take it.

Emma clears her throat and smiles tightly, even for her. “I'm sure it'll blow over soon.”

“Until then, get used to being followed around again?” Belle provides, an unhelpful shrug following.

Killian steals a crouton off Emma’s salad and pops it in his mouth. “Quack.”

-/-

 _Soon_  must definitely mean after the week is over.

It's as though he's teaching a group of Cheshire cats, their grins nearly splitting their faces.

On Wednesday afternoon during his lunch, someone slips a printed out version of the page with his photo under his classroom door.

Killian scrunches it up and shoves it in his bottom drawer. Perhaps if he were still in college, he'd appreciate being the centre of attention like this. But he's past that, past focusing on the superficial; he's rebuilt himself up from the death of his fiancée, and since then, has focused only on the things that genuinely matter in his life.

Maybe he's making a bigger deal out of this than he needs to. Maybe it's just that it's strange to have Ms. De Vil wink at him as he passes her in the hallway.

Thursday evening, while he's buying groceries, Walter’s fixated on watching him from behind the checkout counter, even his perpetual sneezing from his year-round allergies halted for the purpose.

“I take it you saw the photo,” Killian says.

“Who hasn't?” Walter replies.

Some part of him, he will admit, is definitely amused. He's hardly a man to be starstruck over. And yet, Walter gives him a five dollar discount and a coupon for half off at Any Given Sundae. There are some things he just can't complain about.

-/-

“Apparently I'm in the presence of a celebrity. Congratulations, mate.”

“Sod off, Robin.”

“All I'm saying is you better not forget us little folk.”

If he were anywhere but on school grounds, Killian would definitely flip him off.

-/-

**Elsa sent an image**

**Elsa:** _!!!_

**Liam:** _Brother, is that you?_

**Killian:** _Gods, not you guys too_

**Elsa:** _Someone at work showed it to me, they recognised you from the photo on my desk_

**Killian:** _Wonderful_

**Killian:** _I'm statewide_

**Elsa:** _Technically, international_

**Elsa:** _At least it's a nice photo_

**Liam:** _Don't think your ego needs a couple thousand people more telling you you look good_

**Elsa:** _You should hire this person as your personal photographer_

**Liam:** _They do have a knack for composition_

**Killian:** _I'm muting this chat_

**Liam:** _Has your Ms. Swan seen it yet?_

**Liam:** _Maybe she's interested in celebrities and it'll help you win her over_

**Killian:** _Goodbye_

-/-

It’s as though the whole town has caught a virus where they’re incapable of speaking of anything else. Killian pinches himself a few times during the day just to make sure he isn’t stuck in some elaborate dream that stretches the realm of science fiction and tragic humor.

Pinches himself again when he overhears Paige and Ava after class, discussing the likelihood of fictional characters being featured on said page.

(“Which one do you think?”

“I mean, Romeo, for sure.”

“That’s obvious, though. What about Prospero?”

“Yeah, I could see it.”

“Coriolanus reading war strategies.”

“Bassanio reading a self-help book on how to get rich quick.”

“Oh, what about Austen’s men?”

“Darcy. A few more probably, but, Darcy.”

A sigh. “Yeah. Darcy.”)

At least they’re paying attention in class, Killian thinks.

At least if he’s stuck in a rut, he has an interesting discussion topic at hand. Shooting himself in the foot in the process, sure. But he has to admit, a lot of Austen’s men  _would_  find themselves on there.

 _Great_ , now he’s got the bloody virus too.

-/-

His own Instagram app is tucked away in a subfolder on his phone titled  _Extra_. It’s all the things he’s downloaded and tried out but doesn’t care for much when it comes to daily use. It’s a private account with two posts and only a handful of followers, two of those being his family. In fact, he doesn’t pay mind to social media in general.

Elsa thinks he’s trying too hard to be “cool” by not doing what everyone else is doing.  _Hipster_ , Roland had once called him when he’d come to school in suspenders and forgone his contacts for his glasses.

Perhaps he’s too much of an old soul caught in the body of someone living in the twenty-first century. He’s got far more to discuss than what a hundred and forty characters would allow him to.

Still, he can appreciate the advancement that the internet has brought, a completely new language that it’s created with acronyms and shorter words per sentences that deliver precisely the same meanings. Wherein  _I’m going to die ilysm_ and  _omg wtf this man_  and  _CRYING_  are all appropriately positive expressions, and apparently only the beginning of the comments under his photo.

“Some of these are actually funny, you should read--  _oh_ , not that one.” Belle’s been reading a few of them out, Robin jumping in ever so often as Killian shoves spoon after spoon of strawberry yogurt into his mouth. He doesn’t know how this started, they were having a quiet enough lunch, but-- Killian’s thinking about giving the virus a name, no use of putting it on a leash, it’s bound to follow him around regardless.

“Actually, that one’s quite hilarious, too.”

“Inappropriate,” Belle chides.

“This was where it was taken, right?” Robin asks, looking around the room. “Who do you think did it?”

Killian’s thought about it, and he can never pin one person down. He shrugs. “I am curious, though. It wasn’t one of you, was it?”

“I didn’t even know there was a site for this,” Robin laughs while Belle shakes her head no. “But this could be fun. Power of elimination,” Robin adds, sitting up. “Considering only we have access to this lounge and surely you or someone else would have noticed a student in here, it narrows it down to the staff.”

“It’s like a mystery novel,” Belle chirps, excited.

Killian grins in amusement. “Even if we find this person, what makes you think they’ll admit to doing it?”

“It’s worth a try, right?” Belle replies. “I know you’re curious. Besides, it might be fun.”

“Perhaps.”

“First thing’s first, who would you consider the least likely suspect?” Robin asks.

 _Emma_ , is his first thought. Partly because she’s standing behind Robin as she gets coffee and thus, is directly in his line of vision. And partly because, well, he’s not wrong, is he? He is on friendly terms with every one of his colleagues, even Cruella.  _Born with enough charm for the both of us_ , Liam used to say when they were growing up. Emma is the only one who doesn’t even bother with him outside of greetings most days.

“Merlin,” he says instead, finding it easier to admit out loud.

Robin clicks his tongue. “You think the Principal doesn’t fall for those dimples? You must be more of an idiot than I thought.”

-/-

He thinks about tacking up a few photos on his whiteboard at home and tying up strings to connect them, making himself a makeshift murder board, but that might be a little too dramatic. Even for him.

He's terribly tempted. But he sticks to keeping his thoughts and observations to himself, lists down suspects in order of most to least likely.

It goes something like:

  1. Cruella (only for the sake that she's incredibly talented at making him squirm in his own skin)
  2. Aurora (he was all too aware of the infatuation she harboured for him during his first month at Storybrooke High)
  3. Zelena (see Cruella, but a tad milder)
  4. August (not much reasoning, he's just shady)



And on and on, until he's running through reasonings and possibilities every time he passes by a colleague in the hallway. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind he shouldn't fixate too much on this because it has the capability to drive him mad.

He's stirring cream into his coffee, his thoughts swirling around as he tries to get them under control. Midterms are around the corner and perhaps that's a better, more productive, use of his mental capacity.

“You doing okay, Jones?”

He looks up and his stomach does that flip that betrays him. “Pardon?”

Emma looks like she wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn't and it makes him smile. “You've been scowling at that cup for a while.”

It's late afternoon, and the sun streams through the large lounge window and silhouettes the right side of Emma just perfectly. The one sunny day they've gotten in ages and it seeks her out; as if he needed more reasons to think she's ethereal.

“It's been a long day,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. And it had, without including his constant rushing thoughts. He's simultaneously glad and not glad that it's just the two of them here; the former because he won't resent spending any time with Emma, the latter because he wants to not stare at her like an idiot but he doesn't know where else to look.

“How's Henry doing?” she asks after she's got her own drink in hand. He softens at the mention of the lad he's so fond of. Henry Mills, son of the mayor, went through a bit of a rough patch with his adoptive mother a few months ago, and it affected his results in school. It took a few meetings and plans between Emma and a few teachers to get him back on track.

“Better, much better. All thanks to you. You're that lad’s bloody hero, Swan.” He admires her for her determination in bettering these kids’ lives. He's so far gone for her and that is most definitely one of the reasons why.

She shrugs, waving away his praise. “It takes a village. We've got a good team here.” He knows she means the faculty, but for a split second he lives in the delusion that she means the two of them. She stares at the cup in her hand for a long second, shifting the weight between her feet. “I should get going,” she finally says. It's disappointment that causes his shoulders to slump.

“Right. Yes. I, myself, should be heading out soon, just a few more papers left to grade.” He grins through his weary sigh.

It makes her smile for some reason or the other. He isn't going to question it. “See you, Jones.”

“Always a pleasure, Swan.”

He watches her until she's out of his line of vision, then takes a whole two minutes to snap out of it before he gets up and goes back to work.

-/-

She sits with him the next time he’s alone, having coffee and contemplating papers. He asks her to join him, bracing for disappointment, but to his utter surprise she takes the seat in front of him.

It’s harder to concentrate on work after that.

The next time, he doesn’t even ask. She simply slides into the empty chair with a silent nod in greeting and a barely-there smile.

He has a hard time piecing it all together, getting his brain to register that she’s willingly spending time with him. Even if it is mostly in silence as they work. Even if her smiles are still not given freely and pulling a laugh out of her is a quest fit for a folktale.

Even then, it’s as though he’s dreaming.

-/-

It’s a strange thing, becoming friends with Emma Swan. In the few weeks that it takes, he almost doesn’t notice it happen, and yet he’s hyperaware of every laugh she gives him, every text she sends that may be read as mildly flirtatious, every instance she lets him flop onto the soft leather couch in her office without an eye roll.

(“I could sleep here for weeks,” he murmurs into the cushion of the couch, his legs too long to fit so they dangle off the edge.

“You have a class in ten minutes.”

“Don’t ruin a good thing, Swan.”

“Your job is a good thing that you’ll ruin if you don’t go to class.”

He groans, but she lets him drink half her coffee before he has to leave.)

Maybe he’d miss their budding friendship if he blinked, he thinks. He isn’t nitpicking, isn’t over analyzing, and yet the gradual pace of it drives him a little bit insane. Because let’s face it, at the end of the day, when he’s lying down by himself in his bed, getting ready to sleep, all he can think about is how he really, truly, just wants to kiss her.

After months and months of acquaintanceship, Emma is finally his friend. And that is enough.

And yet--

Yet, when she swipes her tongue over her lips to catch a few stray drops of her coffee, he thinks that it is definitely not enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps he should have anticipated at least some of it but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to people walking up to him in the middle of the street and saying, “I drove here from Boston because I saw you and this town on Instagram oh my God can I get a photo with you please?” All as if it’s one sentence, too.

It doesn’t happen too often, but it happens enough. Because apparently his face is attracting tourists and the town’s business has never been so good. Or so Mayor Mills tells him, in her perpetually unimpressed tone of voice, pursed lips and all.

He’s fallen down some wormhole, or walked through a portal, or is surely dreaming of something Twilight Zone inspired because this is not a life he’d ever thought he’d be even remotely close to having.

“Enjoy your limelight, brother,” Liam tells him over the phone one afternoon, “it’ll surely leave a hole in you once it’s over.”

Killian can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. He simply hums his response.

“And what of Ms. Swan these days?” he asks, tone the right amount of casual and curious that he knows Liam has mastered over the years.

And, Killian realises, those two are the only things that seem to be prominent in his life lately. Emma, however, is the only one that’s constantly on his mind. He doesn’t tell Liam that last thought, though. He doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of his shit-eating grins; they’re infinitely worse somehow when they’re heard over the phone, seeping through his teasing.

-/-

These days, the dock seems to be his only reprieve in a town that is this close to putting his photo on their official website under  _Attractions_. (He’d swiftly replied with a “No way,” to that email, deleting the few curses he’d added in his haste before he sent it.) It’s quiet most mornings, but especially when the weather starts getting colder. He sits on the bench in his trench coat, boots resting on the railing in front of him, and tilts his head just right so he can feel the breeze and smell the sea, and if he concentrates hard enough, he can convince himself for a few seconds that he’s on a boat.

It’s early – perhaps too early in the day to be lamenting his lack of a sailing vessel – and the last thing he expects is someone tapping on his shoulder, a clearing of a throat following after.

With very little grace, he drops his legs and twists himself in his seat to find Emma Swan blinking at him, a grey beanie on her head keeping her hair from flying in a hundred directions and a small tilt to her head. He hears the opening bars of some love song begin to play in his head and  _bloody hell_ , he needs to stop thinking he’s in some kind of romance novel.

“Fancy seeing you here, Swan.” He ignores the way his heart picks up when the corner of her mouth ticks up for a second.

“Was just taking a walk.” She opens her mouth as if to say more but changes her mind and punctuates her sentence with a shrug that he finds ridiculously endearing.

“This early on a Saturday morning?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Ah, but mine is a force of habit. Growing up with a brother like mine tends to drill some things into you that you just can’t shake.”

“Hardass?” she asks.

He smirks, thinks he’ll text that to Liam later. “Navy man,” he amends. And then, “And also a real hardass.”

Her smile is a full one this time.

“Well, I always have room for you if you’d like some company, Swan.” If he flashes her his most charming smile, well, that’s his business.

She eyes him for a second but she makes up her mind, and goes around the bench to plop down next to him. She keeps her fingers intertwined, in her lap, rubbing her thumbs over her skin as if to ward off the cold.

He fills the silence with words, because it’s easier that way. “I would normally work at this time. But I prefer the sea to Shakespeare. There’s only so many essays on Macbeth one can read through before murder starts feeling like a logical and viable option.”

She scoffs, “I thought you liked Shakespeare.”

“Liked? Swan, the man is a connoisseur of language, he practically shaped modern literature, both in tragedy and humour. The man is—“ he cuts himself off at the hidden smile sparkling in her eyes.

“Is this what your classes are like? You getting all riled up about this dead guy?”

He smirks. “If you’re interested in seeing me  _all_   _riled up_ , that can be arranged.”

Emma rolls her eyes, lips curving at the edge in a half smile.

“So,” he chances after staring at her profile for a few seconds longer than necessary, “what are you really avoiding?”

“What?”

“Come now, it’s seven in the morning and I’ve known you to gulp down two cups of coffee, minimum, to keep your eyes from shutting during morning meetings. You must be avoiding something.”

Emma is intent on staring at her hands, thumbs going around in slow circles over her skin, but she eventually replies, “It’s Mary Margaret. She’s just been on my back and I can’t deal with it right now.”

“Your roommate?” He knows they live together, have been since Emma drove into town and Mary Margaret took her in. Small town, word gets around.

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s great. Really great. I’d be living in my car if it wasn’t for her, and I know she means well. But she gets really pushy really quickly, and now David’s around, too. And the two of them just amplify each other's’ parenting habits and I–” she sighs, “I’m rambling, sorry.”

“On your case about what, Swan?”

She shakes her head. “She keeps trying to set me up with these guys, who she says are  _friends_ but I know all her friends, these aren’t them. I think she’s just trying to set me up with any single guy she meets and, surprise, they’re all jackasses.” A roll of her eyes. “I’m sick of it.”

He ignores the little needling at the back of his head and pulls at the collar of his coat to keep from fidgeting too much. “My brother, Liam, he did the same thing to me after my fiancée passed.” She looks at him, not with sympathy – thank the gods – but with a touch of sadness in her eyes that confirms that she’s known enough loss in her life. “It’s their way of helping, no matter how bloody annoying it is. We fought over it a lot and gradually, he understood. Though, that still doesn’t stop him from trying every now and then.” He shakes his head with a fond smile.

“How long?”

She doesn’t have to frame a whole sentence for him to understand. “Almost five years. Car accident.” He clenches and unclenches his left hand, the jagged scar running down his palm a reminder of his loss. “They said I was lucky, that the physio would bring back at least seventy to eighty percent of the feeling in my hand. And it did. Can barely feel anything with my last two fingers, but it worked. Still, I didn’t feel very lucky then, or for a long time after that.”

He still has days where the self loathing crashes over him, pulls him under until he can’t think straight, can’t breathe. Those moments don’t ever really go away.

Although, the memory seems farther away now; he’s come a long way since that night he sat outside her hospital door, distraught and scared and shattering from the inside out.

“The first man I ever loved set me up to take the fall for a crime he committed,” Emma says, eyes set on the horizon. “It was a stint in juvie with community service. Ever since then, my luck with guys has been shit.” She exhales sharply, says quickly, “I mean, it’s not the same as what you went through, but—“

“But,” he cuts in, “pain is pain, Emma. Yours or mine, it still pierces the heart.”

“And it makes us who we are.”

“Right. And something tells me there’s more to who you are. You’ve known more than your fair share of loss.”

When she looks at him, it’s with an expression he can’t read. If he were to try and describe it, it would be a cross between fear and curiousity. Perhaps some longing, but that could simply be his own face mirrored in her eyes.

“We’re not that different,” he adds, “you and I.”

“Maybe,” she breathes out. She says it so distractedly that he thinks she doesn’t mean to say it at all. That it’s simply a way to fill the silence, the small space that’s left between them, because somehow they’ve managed to inch their faces closer without him noticing.

There’s that conflicting argument again. If he blinks, he misses it. If he blinks, he feels every single inhale of hers as though it were his own.

And bloody hell, if he could blink now and kiss her— if he could just do that, then—

“Jones!” It cuts through the air so harshly, his ears start ringing, and the two of them spring apart like they were doing something wrong. He doesn’t want to analyse exactly  _what_  they were doing. Not now, not when Leroy is hovering over them like a rather annoying pest. “Didn’t recognise you without a book in your hand,” he laughs.

Killian clenches his jaw. Leroy is someone he’d put at number one on the suspect list, despite the fact that he doesn’t even work at the school. Still, the man somehow manages to squeeze himself into everyone else’s business. Number five it is, Killian decides.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles under his breath. And then louder, to Leroy, “A pleasure, as always.”

“No Shakespeare today?” Leroy’s grinning, but he’s walking past them. And in an instant, he’s on his way down the docks, still laughing to himself. Killian only ever sees the man smile when he thinks he’s made a particularly funny joke. Which is, in fact, never funny.

He’s so busy squinting at Leroy’s back that he only barely notices Emma get up. “I should get going.”

He rushes, like a fool, to think of a way to keep her here, next to him. “I was planning on heading to Granny’s to get some coffee, if you’d like to join?”

“Actually,” she says with a tug at the back of her beanie and her lips in a thin line, “I have to get some work done, run some errands.” He practically sees her guard go up right then.

“Of course,” he replies, trying his hardest not to let his disappointment show. He smiles quickly, hoping to cover up any painful expressions that may have found their way onto his face for her to see. “I won’t keep you.”

It’s an awkward thing, standing in front of her, not knowing whether to shake her hand or hug her goodbye. They’ve never hugged before, but it seems like the best way to depart from a heavy conversation. Emma, to his growing disappointment, makes up his mind for him, and simply nods before stepping backwards.

“Have a good weekend,” she says in parting, turning away from him and walking towards Main Street.

He watches her go, trying his hardest to keep her golden hair in his line of vision for as long as possible, a heavy feeling settling uncomfortably in his gut.

-/-

He doesn’t think about the almost kiss.

Or, well, he tries not to.

His mind is a cruel thing that reminds him of the moment at the most inopportune times. Like in the middle of class, while he’s explaining symbolism, and has to scramble to get back to the point he was trying to make. Like while he’s pouring coffee and misses the mug and nearly scalds his hand. Like when he catches a glimpse of her down the hall, going into her office, and trips over his own feet like a bloody git.

He wonders what kind of effect a real kiss would have on him, and then he admonishes the thought, is close pinching himself to get the thoughts of  _that_ out of his head because who the bloody hell knows how badly he’ll hurt himself with that swimming around in his consciousness.

Gods, he’s a mess.

He doesn’t see Emma for a while; she’s not around for their usual conversations over coffee. And although he’s busier than he was with the run up to midterms, he still notices her absence. Notices how she hovers near the door during morning meetings and slips out as soon as they end. Notices her busying herself the minute he enters a room, ducking out at the first possible chance with barely a nod in acknowledgement. He texts her a few times, and is met with either short replies or none at all, but he still tries to reach out to her, his determination getting the better of him.

He stays in his class far longer than necessary on Friday, with the weekend stretching on to include a week off right before midterms, there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to go home to the loneliness of his apartment. Killian shuffles between grading papers and scrolling through emails on his phone, working at a pace slower than his usual.

It’s the light he sees down the corridor, as he’s on his trek to find a snack from the lounge, that sends a small jolt through him and simultaneously hits him somewhere in the chest. It’s streaming from below Emma’s office door. His fingers curl unbidden as he focuses on the low beam of light, and standing in the darkened hallway, he makes up his mind.

It takes twenty minutes for the takeout to arrive (Chinese, as she’d once mentioned that she preferred) and a few seconds of a determined stride to get him to her door. He knocks, and when he hears a questioning hum, cracks it open.

The first thing his eyes settle on is her hair pulled back into a ponytail, loose strands falling over her face. She’s on the carpeted floor, laptop beside her, elbows resting on the couch where she has piles of papers spread out. He doesn’t know what it is – perhaps it’s everything all at once – but he feels a fierce sense of longing that nearly knocks him over.

“Jones?”

“I saw your light on,” he explains and raises the bag in his hand. “Figured you wouldn’t have had any food besides those atrocious jellies from the vending machine.”

She blinks at him. “I’m not really hungry,” she says, intent on shuffling a few papers around.

“You shouldn’t work on an empty stomach, love.”

She stops her fidgeting for a brief second, but then takes the stack and pushes herself up off the floor and deposits them on her desk. Briefly, he notes that she’s taken off her knee high boots, her socks a navy blue with small anchors on them. Her back to him, voice as hard as steel, she says, “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

He steps into her office, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief propelling him forward. “Have I done something wrong, Swan?”

“I’m just really busy right now.”

“No, what you are is avoiding me. And don’t say you aren’t, because I’m quite perceptive. You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

She turns to him, her hard expression no doubt mirroring his own. His jaw clenches when she remains silent.

“Emma, if I’ve done something to upset you, all I ask–”

“You haven’t done anything.”

He scoffs. “I find that rather hard to believe considering your effort to avoid being in the same room as me.” She crosses her arms, and it hits him. His voice lowers, loses most of its severity, “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? You?”

“I think you’re shutting me out because you’re afraid of opening up, of letting someone see you without all your armour. You’re an open book to me, Swan, despite all your walls.”

He doesn’t know what he wants, perhaps an admission or at least an acknowledgement. But he doesn’t get either. What he gets is a subtle shake of her head and a dismissal void of any emotion.

“I’ve got work college applications to go through and letters to finish writing, so if you’d close the door on your way out, that would be great.”

She turns away from him and he has no strength left in him to do anything other than exit her office. The anger mixes with hurt mixes with sadness, and he’s simply left feeling empty.

He tosses the takeout the minute he gets to the parking lot.

His apartment feels far more lonely that night than it has ever felt before.

-/-

“You’re moping,” Belle says to him, pointing her spoon at his face as though to make a point.

“I am not,” he denies, and shoves another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

“I’ve never seen anyone look sadder while eating Rum Raisin.”

“Ice cream is the ultimate sad food, lass, you’ve clearly not been meeting the right people. Besides,” he adds, “I am not sad.”

He is not sad, he tells himself for the fiftieth time today. He had a coupon burning a hole in his wallet and he has Belle as something of a best friend, and all those fit together on this chilly Thursday evening. It seemed logical.

“Is this about Emma?”

Everything these days, it seems, comes back to Emma. He thinks maybe Emma and him were never really friends, just acquaintances that met a few times and then didn’t. Killian’s eyes dart around the ice cream shop, and fixate on the corner light near the back room that doesn’t work. He knows, for a fact, that it stopped working during an evening shift, and that no one has touched the damn thing because at first they all were too busy, and then they weren’t bothered. He knows this because Emma told him so, told him that she worked a few shifts for a month when she first moved to town and was looking for a job.

Killian can’t get anything she’s mentioned to him out of his head; it follows him around like a haunting ghost, wrapping itself around his head and covering his eyes until he squeezes them shut and all he can see is Emma.

“No,” he tells Belle.

Her expression tells him that she doesn’t believe him. Fair enough. He doesn’t believe his words either.

He doesn’t tell Belle any of it. Mainly because he’s still trying to understand it himself. Trying to come to grips with their argument that started from nothing and ended in the same place. Killian thinks he’s right, though, her flight instincts kicked in and she lashed out. Forget not feeling what he felt that day on the docks (what he feels most always), but she doesn’t even want a friendship. She’s shut him out now and he isn’t deserving of someone as fierce and radiant as her, he knows, but it still doesn’t make his sour mood any better.

He shifts his attention to his little investigation instead, hoping to get Belle off his back. “I was thinking, perhaps it was Will who sent in that photo. Technically assistant coaches do have access to the teacher’s lounge.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And why not?”

“I just think he wouldn’t do something of that sort,” she says, straightening in her seat.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chastises with a smirk. “You can’t be biased in an investigation.”

“I’m not biased.”

“Having a crush is being biased, darling.”

“You’re the one with the crush, Killian,” she says and then immediately takes in a deep breath. Circling back to Swan. Even when he doesn’t do it himself, the universe is hell bent on doing it for him.

“ _You’re_  deflecting,” he replies simply, a raise of his eyebrow thrown in for good measure to make her feel better.

“We were talking about your internet fame,” she reminds him.

He’s been focusing on his “internet fame” quite a lot lately, funnily enough. He’d rather not think about the other things. Thus, it’s the better option, even if he still doesn’t like the idea of it. The world (dear gods, the whole bloody  _world_ ), he’s found, has only started to pay more attention to him in the time that he’s stopped thinking about it.

Just a few days ago, Liam sent him a link to an article detailing the page as one of the “Top Ten Instagram Feeds You Should Be Following” and used his photo as the featured post for the account. There are apparently several blogging platforms that redistribute the images. And then, of course, there’s the comments under his photo that just keep growing.

( _idk where this storybrooke place is but if everyone there looks like this i’m moving_ )

( _maybe I’d have paid attention in high school if my teacher looked like THAT_ )

( _but never doubt I love this dude_ )

(That last one, he must admit, he has to give points to for the Hamlet reference.)

“I’m not famous.” He takes a spoonful of his melting ice cream.

Belle uses the time to pull out her phone and inform him that he has close to seventy thousand likes on his photo, and he swallows much harder than necessary.

“Anyway, it wasn’t Will,” she resolves.

“Arthur?” he suggests.

“Can you actually see him taking pictures of anything that isn’t his face?”

“Too true, lass. I’ve still got my money on Cruella.” He swirls around the now liquid ice cream in his cup, trying to find one aspect of his life to focus on that doesn’t make him want to sigh heavily. Even Shakespeare is tainted.

He’s surely  _moping_ , but Belle doesn’t comment. Instead, she suggests, “We should go out on Saturday. Drinks on me.”

“Is this an optional event?”

“No. You’re coming. We’ll call a few others, too. Please?” He’s loathe to deny her anything when she looks at him with such care and concern.

“Fine,” he caves. “But only if you call Will.”

-/-

“Tink says they’re thinking about naming a drink after you,” Robin announces, dropping the tray of shots on to the table. “She said your face is really putting the town’s name out there.”

Killian groans, takes a shot, says, “They have my blessing if I get my drinks for free.”

“You’re finally looking at the bright side of all of this,” Belle says happily.

“You’re not the one dodging calls from parents asking about how appropriate it is to have a public face under my employ,” Merlin notes.

“Sorry, mate.” Killian winces but Merlin waves it off, passing him another shot.

“How are you not using your fame? If I had your power, mate, I’d be king of this town,” Will declares, passing back his phone that he and Merlin were huddled over, going through the likes on the photo and loudly reading out the message requests he’s been receiving after some commenter did their digging and tagged his personal account under the post.

Killian shoots Belle an amused look and says to Will, “I don’t think this town can technically have a king.”

“Besides, you’d be more of a jester, don’t you think?” Robin adds, chuckling. They all burst into laughter, the dim lighting of The Rabbit Hole and the warmth of the people around him washing over him. And alright, maybe he’s feeling a bit better already.

The feeling, unfortunately, only lasts so long. The flash of blonde he sees, he marks down to his imagination at first. (It wouldn’t be the first time his brain played tricks on him in this regard.) But as the lights change for the next live set, he knows it’s Emma one table across, her back to him but still within earshot.

His theory is confirmed when he spots Ruby sitting in front of her, recognising her instantly from the diner.

He’s definitely staring because Belle notes it, elbows his arm to get his attention.

“Go talk to her,” she whispers as softly as one can in a loud bar.

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Belle says something to him but he doesn’t hear her over the music. Besides, he’s too busy focusing on Emma and Ruby. He rises from his seat just as Ruby leans over to say something to Emma. Killian makes a mumbled excuse and escapes to the bathroom where he stares at himself in the mirror long and hard, and then washes his face, hoping the frown will wipe right off somehow. It’s maddening, the effect this woman can have on him.

He’s still lost in his thoughts as he exits into the bar and he bumps into Ruby, quite literally, needing to steady her with his hands on her arms. She laughs off his apologies and instead grins up at him, wolfish and a little tipsy.

“You’re coming to the wedding, right?” she asks after they get their pleasantries out of the way. “Dorothy and Granny are so frenzied, they’re making it into this huge  _thing_. But I love them, so you know, it’s really just kind of cute.”

“I’ll try and make it, lass,” he says. He doesn’t know if he could stand seeing Emma in a bridesmaid dress, her soft smile directed at anyone and everyone but him.

“You really are all kinds of good looking, you look good even in this terrible light.” He opens his mouth to thank her, perhaps make a quip, but she adds, “Emma was right to send that photo in, the world needed to see this face.”

He doesn’t catch her meaning for a second. He’s misheard her over the music, he thinks, because it definitely sounded like–

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes out, eyes wide. “Wasn’t supposed to say that.”

Fuck, indeed.

Killian doesn’t exactly know what he says to either Ruby or his group of friends, but he’s out of the bar and into the chill outside, his mind jumping from one thing to another, leaving him all sorts of wired. It’s strange and crazy and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

What is he meant to do?

Because, Emma?  _Emma_? His  _least_  likely suspect?

At the back of his mind he knows it’s always the one you don’t suspect, but he doesn’t have the space in his thoughts for subtle ironies right now. He curls his hands into fists and shoves them into the pockets of his leather jacket because he doesn’t  _understand_.

Doesn’t know why’d she’d take a photo of him, put it up online, and then proceed to become friends with him, and then decide against it. He’s pulled in all sorts of directions with theories, but his feet take him to the docks. He isn’t nearly drunk enough for this so he takes a few heavy pulls from his flask of rum when he’s seated on a table right next to the railing overlooking the horizon.

He doesn’t know how long he spends drawing up ridiculous notions in his head, and staring at the photo she’d taken (Emma had  _taken his photo_ ), zooming in and out to see if he could catch her reflection or her shadow or  _something_. Killian wakes up to the sun, his back on the bench, the biting cold freezing his nose and ears, and his phone clutched to his chest.

He also wakes up to a sneeze. And is once again hit with the events from last night once he unlocks his phone to find it still open on the page. He sneezes again.

“Could this get any bloody worse?” he mutters to himself.

He rubs his hands over his face and decides that he just needs a fucking break.

-/-

He stays in bed for three days, covered in blankets and surviving on takeout soup. His sickness takes away from the tangled mess of his thoughts, the almost physical hurt of his feelings, and the constant pull of longing that makes his chest ache.

Now, his chest simply aches because he can’t stop coughing.

What had Belle said? At least he’s looking at the bright side? She’d be proud to see him now.

He doesn’t mention any of it to anyone, simply staying holed up with his sick leave and catching up on Netflix while a substitute administers his classes and their midterms. Killian keeps his emails open, his students know that if they need him, they can reach him.

He’s just managed to drag himself out of bed after his third nap of the day when his doorbell rings. Chalking up not remembering if he ordered any food or not to his hazy state of mind, he runs a hand through his hair to look at least somewhat presentable and pulls open the front door.

When he sees Emma standing in front of him, he runs through whether or not hallucinations are a side effect of the painkillers he’s on. It’d be a bit of a stretch, surely. Emma’s arms are crossed and she has a hard set to her brows, but the fact that she’s worrying her bottom lip gives her away instantly. She’s nervous. Killian doesn’t know how he feels, all things considered, only that she’s still terribly beautiful.

“Where have you been?” It’s more of a demand than a question.

“Here,” he answers after a brief moment of studying her. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I took a half day, you haven’t been around and I was…,” she trails off.

“Worried about me?” he asks with a quirk of his eyebrow. And then, more soberly, “Or did you come by to take more photos of me for the  _fans_?”

She winces. Physically recoils in on herself, and he should feel some kind of joy to see it but he doesn’t. He wants to wrap his arms around her. Consciously, he crosses his arms so he doesn’t reach out for her.

“Killian, I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I took the photo to send to Ruby because you looked so peaceful and when we were out that night at her bachelorette party, she told me about this account. I got drunk and it happened. It’s my fault.”

“Why play out this charade? All you’ve done is left me out of my wits. If Ruby hadn’t accidentally mentioned it to me, I’m sure you would have never said anything, would you?”

He’s met with a deeper frown, a subtle shake of her head.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” To his tired self, it sounds like he’s begging, and maybe he is.

“You were right,” Emma says. “I was scared.”

“What does that have anything to do with this?”

She takes a breath and shakes her head. “I was scared of letting you in. But that’s not why I shut you out. I shut you out because I felt guilty. I didn’t tell you in the beginning because we weren’t friends and that would‘ve sounded creepy as hell, and besides, I figured ‘What the hell, he’ll probably love the attention,’ but you didn’t. I saw how it really made you feel, and then I got to know you and I just  _couldn’t_. I thought you’d be mad or something at least, I don’t know. And that day at the docks, when Leroy mentioned it–”

“It hit you then, didn’t it?”

“Whenever I was with you, I wasn’t thinking about how you’re that hot guy I took a photo of that’s famous online. I was just  _with you_. I forgot I did something so stupid.”

His exhale is shaky at best. “You were perhaps the only person who made me forget about the madness it brought upon me.”

“I fucked up your life.”

“You did no such thing, Swan,” he tells her fiercely, hoping she’ll believe him. “Having you around, getting to know you, it made me the happiest I had been in a while. I’d always hoped, since the time we started working together, that perhaps you’d let me in.” He shakes his head at the thought, not knowing if hope is a luxury he can have anymore.

Her voice is small when she asks, “And now?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Now, I don’t feel any different than I did before.”

She takes a very small step forward, and when he doesn’t move, another. And another. Until she’s toe to toe with him, neck craned up to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she tells him.

“I’m not mad at you, love.”

“You sure?”

“As long as you promise not to distribute any more of my photos without my consent,” he jokes.

She leans in, nose nearly touching his, and softly but surely presses her lips against his in the most featherlight of kisses. It’s dizzying.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” he asks, a huff of laughter following.

Emma hums. She moves closer to kiss him once more but he pulls back, a hand on her arm.

“I’m sick,” he explains immediately. “I don’t want you to catch this.”

Before he can protest, she rises on her tiptoes and kisses him chastely, a smile spreading across her face as she drops back down to her feet. He can’t believe it, surely needs to pinch himself awake.

He pulls her inside with a promise of hot chocolate, and she tells him she doesn’t need to be bribed to be around him. Her openness takes him by surprise but he isn’t one to question small miracles.

She takes over when he coughs one too many times and he finds he doesn’t mind because seeing her move around in his kitchen is a true wonder.

He leans back against the fridge and simply watches her as she shuts the stove to let the liquid cool. “So, you took my photo to send to Ruby?”

“I was complaining,” she shoots back.

“Complaining?”

“Yep. I was telling Ruby you shouldn’t be allowed to look that good when you’re so cocky.” He gestures for her to continue and she sighs good naturedly. “I didn’t know you but I knew you looked like, well,  _that_. You were always flirting and joking around. And part of me believed there was more to you, but just because you believe something, that doesn’t make it true. I would know. I couldn’t take the chance that I was wrong about you.”

“Did you have the hots for me, Swan?” he teases.

“Shut up.”

He laughs as she avoids his line of questioning, saunters up to where she’s perusing his spice rack. “Well, I do hope that your opinion of me has sincerely changed.”

She turns to face him, and he keeps his expression as open as he can manage, wanting her to see how much he wants this, her,  _them._ Perhaps he’s getting ahead of himself, but then again, she is in his home, she did just leave her work to check on him and kiss him in his doorway.

She steps into his space and says in a bare whisper, “It changed a while ago, it just took me a bit to catch up.”

Ever so gently, she curls her fingers around the last two of his left hand, intertwining them with hers as much as she can manage. He can’t feel her touch, but he does feel  _something_ , and it halts his breath for a good few seconds as he stares at their joined hands. When he looks up, she’s smiling so softly at him that he can’t help but cradle her cheek in his other hand, surge forward and kiss her.

It’s deeper this time, but he keeps it slow, languid. He wants to cherish this for as long as he can, wants to learn the way she breathes into him and remember each tug of her hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer. It’s not physically possible to get any closer to her but still, he tries. He’ll always try.

He has her pushed against the counter, both her hands in his hair, and his wandering from her neck to waist to back because gods, he doesn’t know what to do.

It’s only when his phone chimes several times consecutively in his pocket that he breaks the kiss. They’re both breathing hard and he can’t knock the bloody smile off his face.

“Don’t tell me again that you’re sick, because what the hell does that matter,” she warns him, and he simply chuckles.

His phone chimes several more times, and he finally digs it out of his pocket. He’s got notifications upon notifications of follow requests and direct message requests.

“Apologies, love. Will turned my notifications on for Instagram and I can’t seem to figure out how to shut the sodding thing off.” He scrunches his face at his screen as though that will help.

“I’ll do it for you,” she tells him, grinning.

She reaches a hand out, but he shakes his head, puts his phone on vibrate and slides it onto the countertop. “Later.” He pulls her closer by the waist and practically sways in place. It might be the sickness making him lightheaded, but a large part of him thinks it’s simply Emma’s effect on him.

“Guess I’m going to have to share you with all your fans.”

“What can I say?” he says, leaning his forehead against hers, “Some gorgeous lass made me famous because she decided I was worth all this fuss.”

“She’s a smart one.”

“Yes,” he says, leaning in to press his nose to hers, “that she is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so most of you either figured out where this was going or hoped it would go this way ha! you guys are good.  
> I hope you've enjoyed this little story, your thoughts and feelings are always appreciated.  
> I am also on [tumblr](http://piratesails.tumblr.com) if you want to come say hi and read the 25379 drabbles that don't make it on to here (tho probs should. one day. maybe).


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